


Endlessly rolling, wasted and stolen, changing hands, changing hands

by loveinadoorway



Category: Supernatural, White Collar
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-08
Updated: 2011-08-08
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:46:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveinadoorway/pseuds/loveinadoorway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Title: Endlessly rolling, wasted and stolen, changing hands, changing hands<br/>Pairing/Characters: Neal, Trickster!Gabe<br/>Genre: gen<br/>Rating: PG<br/>Word count: 1114<br/>Warnings: none<br/>Spoilers: none<br/>Disclaimers: No harm intended, no profit made, yadda yadda. Title and quote One Silver Dollar, Marilyn Monroe in River Of No Return<br/>Summary: Comment_fic prompt at LJ: White Collar, Neal Caffrey, The Trickster (pantheon of the author's choice, i.e. Loki, Coyote, Eris, etc.) would like a few words with a child of theirs.<br/>Author’s note: The pantheon of my choice being the universe of the Kripkeeper, in other words Supernatural, this is Trickster!Gabe. Archangel posing as Loki. Here we go.</p><p>Dedicated to @angelelleth, Trickster's biggest fan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Endlessly rolling, wasted and stolen, changing hands, changing hands

_One silver dollar, one silver dollar_   
_Changing hearts_   
_Changing lives_   
_Changing hands_

The guy was fairly nondescript. Medium height, dirty blond hair, nothing much to see, really – unless you looked him in the eye. The eyes were old and filled with mischief. Little fairy lights were dancing in their depths and whoever looked into them for a while would get lost in them.

He was sitting at the bar across from Neal, tumbler of Scotch in hand, eyeing the younger man with curiosity and, so it seemed, approval. Neal felt slightly uneasy – was the guy trying to pick him up? No, didn’t really seem like it, somehow. But what then?

Neal turned his attention back to the vieux prune he was nursing. No, he didn’t need to get to the bottom of EVERYTHING, did he now? He was here because they had the best vieux prune in Manhattan, because it was his birthday and he intended to indulge himself a little and because he wasn’t likely to run into any F.B.I. agents in here.

He looked up at a sudden rustle of movement at his elbow.

“Hellouhhhh, I’m Gabe,” said the man with the weird eyes and grinned at Neal, ear to ear. Somehow, that grin entirely failed to be reassuring.

“Neal,” he said, trying not to sound encouraging.

“Aww, c’mon, Caffrey, I know that. And don’t you be shy. Just dropping by to say you’re doing me proud, my boy,” weird eye guy said.

Now, Neal KNEW without a doubt who his father had been. And no, his father’s name hadn’t been Caffrey, nor any other name Peter had on file, for that matter. So why was that creep doing that… pseudo father thing? He opened his mouth to say something snappish, but the man cut him short with an expressive wave of his hand.

“No, no, seriously, do I LOOK old enough to be your daddykins? Nah, not your old man, your mom never lied to you. But… we go way back, you and me, Neal. I’ll stick with Neal, if that’s okay with you? Always been partial to that name.”

The guy grinned at him again, then motioned to the barkeeper to fill ‘em up again. The young man complied and slapped a bowl of nuts in front of them.

“Awesome, NUTS,” the man who called himself Gabe cried gleefully. “Here, have some, they’re good for you. Loads of… things, good things, I keep forgetting. Ah, who cares, they taste great, have some!”

Neal couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he had wandered into a weird movie. Some stuff where people turned the wrong corner and ended up in Bizarroland. Or dead. Or insane.

“Where were we?” the guy asked, still grinning as he stuffed another handful of nuts in his mouth.

“Ah, yes, how I know you, that’s what we were discussing. Well..” the guy cleared his throat theatrically, “I, Neal, am your godfather.”

Neal gaped at the man. His mother had never mentioned a Godfather and surely, the man was too young to be that, too.

“I can see what you’re thinking. Guy’s too young for that, too, eh?” The man named Gabe beamed at Neal. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. I’m as old as time, in fact,” he said rather grandly.

“Instead of Gabriel, you could also call me Trickster. I’d answer to Loki, too. I’m… well… let’s just say I’m not human and I am as old as I claim to be.”

Neal shook his head. Yeah, Bizarroland alright. Only, where had he taken the wrong turn?

The guy snapped his fingers and suddenly they were sitting on a balcony in Paris. Neal was reeling, clutching the balcony railing for support. It felt like wrought iron ought to feel, cold, hard, reassuring.

“Inclined to believe me now? Okay, listen, kiddo, your mom, she was a fine woman. A bit… of a dreamer, maybe. So when you were born, she said a little prayer, thinking to keep you safe. Only, she in her naiveté said the wrong kind of prayer.”

Neal leaned forward. Paris had done a good deal to convince him that he was either in a very bizarre dream or indeed hearing the truth.

“You mom was praying for you to go through life easily, like a knife through butter. She prayed for you, not to be something specific, to have a certain career, not to be successful at work, but she prayed for you to go places and get things. Easily, no work involved. The perennial prayer of the Trickster, you see? So I came.”

Neal looked at Gabriel intently. He had looked into his eyes for a brief moment, before deciding that danger lay that way. The man’s mobile face was scrunched up into an expression of deep reminiscence.

“Your mother, well, she was glad her prayer had been answered. She didn’t REALLY ask who answered it and why. But mmmmmaybe she had an inkling and just thought it more prudent to keep her mouth shut, huh? Who knows!”

The Trickster grinned broadly again, arms outstretched in a ‘I didn’t do nothing’ gesture. Neal grinned right back. The insanity of it all was making sense now, at least a little bit.

“So, here I am, popping in to see my favorite godchild. Sorry I’ve been a stranger for so long, but see, a Trickster’s work is just never done!”

There was a snap of fingers and Neal was back in the bar in Uptown Manhattan, holding on to his vieux prune. An empty tumbler of Scotch on the bar was all that proved that Neal hadn’t been hallucinating.

A soft whisper of a laugh tickled his ear and the Trickster’s voice said: “Almost forgot. Didn’t come empty handed. Happy birthday, kiddo. Stay the way you are.”

If Neal hadn’t been such an accomplished pickpocket himself, he probably wouldn’t have noticed the slight dip in his right jacket pocket. He put his hand inside and his fingers closed around a coin. An old silver dollar, from the feel of it. Even before Neal pulled it out of his pocket and looked at it, he knew with absolute certainty what he would find.

A 1976 eagle with a hole drilled through it. He had worn it around his neck forever, first on a string, then a leather thong, then a silver chain. The first dollar he had conned off somebody. Marcus Bradley. Neal had been ten years old. He had lost it when he had foolishly struggled as Peter’s men arrested him.

He ran his thumb over its well worn surface and smiled. Then he raised his glass in a silent salute, breathing thanks to the Trickster. Not a bad godfather for a man like Neal to have.


End file.
